You spend forty-five minutes rearranging yourself like a rotisserie chicken, convinced the perfect position exists somewhere between your left side and your right side. At 2 a.m. you discover it: a seventeen-degree angle where your shoulder doesn't ache and your hip doesn't protest. You drift toward sleep. Your leg falls asleep instead. Now you're hunting the position again, but it's gone—replaced by seven new, equally terrible options that mock you in rotation.